The Fire at His Toes
by nothingwillsuffice
Summary: On a diplomatic mission sometime after their visit to Oriande, the Paladins of Voltron and Emperor Lotor form a pact with planet Synthex for the Coalition. In celebration of newfound peace, the Synthexians host a party the night before the team's departure, and, quid pro quo, all negotiators are required to attend. And it would be courteous to dance.


A steady music plays outside, where they are gathered. It is amplified by the rainbow bonfire blazing at the center of the scene, welcoming and bright, demanding a heartfelt movement from those that bear witness to it. And this music is an interesting synthesis of sounds that may not in actuality belong together but somehow weave together flawlessly to produce an upbeat, colorful polyphony that is pleasing to more than just the ear.

Allura loves it. Lotor can tell.

She and Lance had gotten swallowed by the mass of guests the minute they stepped foot in the venue, excited to partake in the festivities. They are dancing to their hearts' content. Pidge and Hunk have gone off to sample foreign delicacies, Keith and Shiro are currently perimeter watch; the emperor has been left to his own, and he had intended to keep a careful eye on the happenings of the celebration whilst exercising some diplomacy.

But he finds that he cannot look away from her.

Ever the perfect embassador, the last Princess of Altea has dressed herself in culturally sound Synthexian garb-- which is a silky, thin, flattering-blue fabric separated into shirt and pant that flows around her form like water-- and joined the natives of the planet in their celebratory dances. She performs the dances in tandem with the Red Paladin, both soldiers flawlessly learning the foreign, majestic movements. Lotor is almost jealous of them.

Almost.

He appreciates each of the fine arts, and none less than the others. He respects them. However, that does not mean that he desires to be exceptional in each and every one. Such a freeform and. . . _expressive_ art uses the body as its medium, and while coordination and execution are no problems for Lotor, it is an unsavory notion to. . . dance. The chances of his inner expression being an offense is too high anyway; he has resigned himself to watching.

He sees the princess elegantly spin in her place, her clothing rippling like the pure waves of planet Marr's oceans about her, and has to wonder if she's ever dedicated her time to being a performer. Royal duties are suffocating, but every now and then they allow for hobby; he is convinced that she has mesmerized the masses a number of times before. She must have, for he believes himself not to be so easily taken.

The Synthexians cheer for them, treat Allura and Lance as if they are of their own. Now Lotor admits that he is jealous.

He can enjoy a palatable meal from any planet, can learn the language within the deca-phoeb and all the customs within the phoeb; he can fully assimilate himself within any given culture and become familiar with the planet itself in quintants. But capturing the hearts of so many within a varga or two? It is a feat so fantastic Lotor imagines only the Princess of Altea as capable of it.

Meanwhile, Allura and Lance sweep around each other with light grins, moving their bodies with the grace of a Blue Paladin of Voltron to spin around one another as their dance ends. They part, and Allura presumes that this is the moment to find a new partner. Her crystal eyes scan the crowd quickly, and she finds her partner-to-be immediately.

Lotor wears Synthexian clothing, but he stands out in the crowd as starkly as black on white; he is the tallest, the purplest, the most serious and firm of all party attendants. Where the others sway to the music with joy, he stands stiff against them in stoicism. He's a beacon.

Their eyes meet briefly, but he looks as if he's gazing right through her. Allura's mind is made up then, and she kindly declines another's invitation to dance as she makes her way to Lotor through the crowd. Her heartbeat thumps to the beat of the song as she goes.

Oddly enough, the emperor is so transfixed with the beauty of _everything_ that he does not notice the most beautiful of them all has come to his side. His head snaps to her, eyes sharpened, fingers flexing subtly, when he feels her hands take ahold of his. Lotor recognizes the princess and immediately his hostility fades. Allura smiles.

"I was right, then," she laughs, and to Lotor's _terror_ begins to pull him towards the group of dancers, "you need to loosen up."

"Pr-Princess, wait--" he tries.

"I'm afraid I can't."

Allura drags a wide-eyed, horribly rigid Lotor along with a bright smile on her face. She feels his strong hands grip hers a little hard despite his desire to be unshackled from her, and she knows that this is for the best; he's too tense.

He needs this.

That, and a dangerously curious part of her is excited by the idea; is he any good at dancing? is he nervous? is he shy? (A softer part of Allura's heart cannot deny how endearing the thought of the Blood Emperor of the Galra being _shy_ is). She tugs him to the center of the crowd, ignoring the silent plea in his eyes. She is hesitant to release his hands but reasons that Lotor is not the kind to flee or make a scene, and lets go. The emperor stands tall and ramrod straight, a great stone pillar rooted to the ocean floor. He radiates an awkwardness that is garishly foreign to his temperament.

Allura feels the music swell and flits around Lotor as the dance rises again. She twirls, then sways back to his front to initiate the Synthexian Byo with him. Their wrists meet just above her head.

"I know you've been watching," she says, stepping to the side and coercing him to do the same, "so you must know the steps."

Lotor matches her movements the best he can. His lag is small yet noticeable, and he cringes; right the princess may be, but he is not capable of properly _executing_ those steps. He tells her this as their wrists slide past one another and their hands reach for the other's dominant shoulder.

"It's true that you are not perfect," Allura responds, her feet quickly taking her in a small circle around him as if Lotor were a planet and she his moon. When she is in front of him again, the distance between them disappears and the skin of their arms rubs together, elbows bending, hands clasping. Lotor freezes once they're an inch apart and Allura's beautiful eyes are staring intently at him. Her voice is low, soft, when she speaks to him again. "But you must remember that no one can be."

He is utterly taken.

So taken that he does not register the progression of the dance and accidentally hinders her, Allura; the princess leaves him and does a sequence he's supposed to be mirroring but _can't_ , Lotor misses her waist when she returns, she begins to fall and it is all that the emperor can do to remain stoic as he registers that he has _literally_ let the princess down and rushes to catch her. He succeeds, but she is a hair's width from the ground and it is obvious what has happened. Lotor brings her up quickly.

The frown on her face speaks for her.

"Please forgive me, Princess," he says with ill-hidden embarassment, "I-- I told you that I--"

"You are forgiven, Lotor. Mistakes happen." Her tone has a gentleness that hides it, but he can see that she is disappointed.

A moment passes and Allura doesn't look away from him. Lotor has to avert his eyes from her at some point, uncharacteristically nervous under her pensive stare. He glances around them, less self-conscious and more curious, mostly desperate to avoid her _confusion_ about him. He begins wishing that this were a realm he knew, his passion for learning the culture dimmed by. . . what? a desire to impress the Princess?

Lotor almost laughs at himself for being so vain. It is an unavoidable thing for any essence living, he is convinced, but he'd thought himself better trained.

"Princess," he adresses her, watching as her eyes become more focused on him if possible, "I am more proficient at formal dances,"

"You're stiff." she responds immediately, as if he were not seeing the truth.

His eyes avert from her pointed stare once more, his shoulders squaring naturally as if to further expose his rigid nature. He purses his lips, and relents, ". . . In a manner of speaking. . ."

"Have you ever seen yourself fight?"

Lotor raises one of his perfect eyebrows curiously at the inquiry. Again he seems to be a bit puzzled by her, but he doesn't question the sudden change in topic. "No," he answers, looking at her again, "I have not."

Burning excitement builds within Allura's chest. She has the beginnings of a great plan. "There is an Altean ceremonial dance called _Errt a_ _l Ba_ _qsha_. Have you heard of it?"

"I understand what it has been dubbed, but I'm afraid I don't know the dance."

To be expected. "As the name implies," Allura explains, "it is a stylized dance that exhibits a series of 'close-calls,' or near-to-death situations. It is a beautiful display of skill and trust. And neither dancer is ever in any sort of danger if they each have a proper partner, as they should never touch."

"And you want _me_ to do this **dance**?" Lotor concludes. His expression is doubtful, and it only makes the flame in her heart grow. " _With_ you?"

"Yes. We shall put on a show for them."

Lotor shakes his head. He looks genuinely upset. "I apologize, Princess, but I cannot dance."

"You can."

"Perhaps, in some way, that is true, but I am far from your experience."

At this, Allura laughs. Lotor wills his face to remain its lilac hue and quells the warmth gathering in his head; he's embarassed. Is he truly so naïve about the art of dance?

It's hardly a dignified wait for Allura's laughter to die down.

"Dance has nothing to do with experience," she says, and her face is so aglow with mirth and washed in multicolored light that he has to make an extra effort to hear her words of wisdom. "Though it is able to be refined and guided, dance is truly an expression of self. All you really need is to harmonize your energies. And that is done by simply being yourself."

Allura smiles sagaciously at Lotor's furrowed brow. Everyone has a "thing," a style, a preference, a strength, a fire at their toes which makes them _move_. Lance's fire is truly anything upbeat, a match for his abundant, ebullient energy. Her own is more controlled, but just as festive and benevolent. She imagines the other Paladins, if they are ever inclined to dance, have fires of their own that are similar. But Lotor?

The fire at _his_ toes is the heat of battle.

She has seen a lot of him in his fighting, as few as the opportunities have been. The expression of him in the midst of a clash of arms is loud in its subtlety: clever, calculated, angry, refined. His energies create fluid motions, and the wonder and amazement he reserves for matters close to his passions is an invisible glue made from his drive which he uses to attach control to those energies. He is a fine-tuned machine, expressive only in his function but always of much more than what his function entails.

Allura can feel a warm happiness swell within her heart at the idea of Lotor _truly_ dancing. She wastes time no longer, and out of eagerness grabs his hand and leads him back to the center of the party where the crowd is thinning as things begin to settle. She smiles broadly at his frowning face.

"You will follow my lead, but you must promise me that you will _feel_ it, Lotor, and do as you please."

Lotor nods, but cannot assure her with words; do as he pleases? He doesn't quite understand that notion when the context of the situation is a rehearsed sequence.

. . . That they did not rehearse.

Realizing that he has no idea what he's doing, Lotor feels a spike of fear. He doesn't want to reflect badly on the Princess anymore than he has. What's he to do with his inadequacy?

"Imagine that your arm is a blade,"

Again Allura, bless her, reads his mind and comes to his aid. Lotor isn't allowed the time to feel like a child, he's too busy doing as she's instructed. He imagines that his dominant limb is a sword, a Galra blade that he is used to. The meaning behind the action is lost on him, but he does not question it.

Perhaps seeing that his imagination is at work, Allura stands on her toes and places one foot behind the other. Though she doesn't move much, he can see her weight moving through her body. She shifts slightly and looks ready to. . . come at him. Before Lotor can find understanding, she darts toward him.

" _they should_ _never touch_." He remembers this just as the heel of her foot sweeps past his face. There is no need to dodge it because she does not intend to hit him, but its proximity is the smallest bit alarming. Promptly brushing of his surprise, Lotor naturally falls into a ready stance, then is quick to follow her attack with one of his own.

His arm is a sword.

A laugh of all things, merry and true, sounds from the last Princess of Altea. She trusts him, doesn't flinch as his hand narrowly avoids slicing her ear, and once his blow is retracted, she retaliates. They continue this pattern, back and forth. Attacking and receiving.

A flow is quickly established between them. Their movements align with the Synthexian music and soon they are embellished in an almost lacy light of many different colors, exchanging short blows. The crowd collectively turns their attention to the two of them. They watch with awe, with envy, with _reverence_ ; they are stuck between roaring with amazement and being respectfully silent.

They do both, but Lotor is too lost to truly notice. He feels the music pulse within him and uses it to keep his timing, to protect their ebb and flow. His movements get more creative, more _natural_ as he goes. And Allura. She is smooth, swifter than even he in this battle of theirs. Her vision is what he chases after. A genuine smile comes to his face as he gets lost in the otherworldly sensation of _truly_ _dancing_ with the Princess of Altea.

"Oh my goodness, YES!"

"Now that's what I call a RAZZLE-DAZZLE!"

" **What the hell just happened?!** "

The Paladins are loud. They contest with the praise from the Synthexian gathering and make dynamic gestures as their dance ends. Lotor feels sheepish when he notices just how many eyes had been watching, but he isn't allowed time to process it. Allura takes his hand in his and raises it as high as she can, her smile radiant, then she bows, taking him with her. He finds her gaze again as they stand up straight.

The rainbow fire illuminates her face, making her Altean marks shine. It reflects in her eyes, creating a fractured, heartstopping kaleidoscope of _beauty_ in them. Her lips move as she no doubt offers a kind, sagely word to him. But the sound of her voice is drowned out by the height of his other senses, filling him with a plasma-hot heat that melts him from his core to his fingertips.

It is so utterly fantastic-- him, dancing. Of course the Princess is the first to have him do it. Of course. It's still hard for him to fathom. He probably looks odd staring so intently at the Princess for so long, he thinks detached from his body. But it's so ridiculous-- _him._ _D_ _ancing._ A ball of happiness bursts in his chest. Distantly, he feels his shoulders begin to shudder.

Allura is pleasantly surprised when the Emperor of the Galra shows the points of his teeth in a bright grin, throws his head back, and _laughs_.


End file.
